Goodbye, Brother Mine
by Myshi corp
Summary: His brother was dead, and Q hadn't even been invited to Sherlock's funeral. A post Reichenbach Fall reaction fic- Holmes!Q, Bondlock, T for John's vocabulary and mentions of suicide.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello! I have recently joined the James Bond fandom, particularly the idea of Q as a Holmes brother. Reading the available stories I realized that there are no fics that talk about Q's reaction to the Fall. The simplified explanation is that Q is Sherlock's half brother, who Mycroft never viewed as important enough to notify about the fake suicide.**

 **Lots of feels, and I hope to follow up with another chapter soon.**

 **Also, the Algae- Protist or Plant argument mentioned in here is a serious debate that bio nerds get _intense_ about. **

**Happy reading!**

 **Myshi Corp.**

* * *

He had forgotten to sleep (again).

Moneypenny would probably be annoyed with him spending another all-nighter in the office, but those weapon designs just had to be dealt with, and once he'd started working the only thing that reminded him of the passage of time were the occasional breaks to refill his 'Q' mug. He didn't realize it was morning until he looked over and R was sitting at her desk.

"Hello. How long have you been there?"

He wasn't quite sure when she had appeared- was it the start of the workday already?

R wryly smiled at her boss' confusion.

"About half an hour- I know better than to disturb you during a work binge. Knowing you, you probably assumed that your mug refilled itself magically."

"I didn't-"

Q stopped. That argument was hopeless and he sounded a bit like a whiny teenager, so he dropped the subject.

"Well, thank you for the caffeine hit. I did need it. What's on the docket today?"

"It's supposed to be really quiet, with all the 00s done with their missions. The testing of Minion #23's new sedative is at 1300, followed by a Dungeons and Dragons tournament among the interns at 1400. Oh, and Minion #7 challenged your scrabble skills again, if you'd like to correct her judgement."

Q filed the challenge away, and calmly responded.

"If I don't have anything going on at 1400 I would gladly take the role of Dungeon Master."

"I'm sure the minions would be ecstatic about that, sir. Shall I inform them?"

"No, keep it a surprise. Something may come up, and I'd hate to disappoint."

Q turned back to his work, occasionally glancing over Q-Branch and monitoring the minions. When his cup emptied, he grabbed it and started over to the break room/nerd playhouse, where the modified kettle was constantly kept boiling and the mural on the wall was an inscription in elvish. " _Amin n'rangwa edanea_ " (I don't understand these humans) was artfully written, surrounded by a spattering of stars that _just happened to be_ astronomically accurate. Minion #15 had created the mural soon after the branch had decided to remodel the break room. He had also painted the door to look like the entrance to the TARDIS, and Minion #13 created a metal coffee table with a the pattern of a scrabble board welded onto it. Next to the metal scrabble board was R's contribution, a light up chess board that made sarcastic comments and sound effects whenever a piece was captured. Q had recorded the comments for her, so occasionally he'd be walking through the playhouse and hear his highly practiced explosion sound effects go off at the highest volume possible.

(Q was just glad that the board didn't deliver an electric shock to the player that lost a piece- that was one of the prototypes R built, until she played her boss in Chess and lost feeling in both arms.)

The tea had it's own altar, where at least 25 different teas were lined up, organized by type, then alphabetically by brand. Generic white mugs were laid out on the counter, but most employees brought a personalized cup from home. Measuring out two teaspoons of the loose leaf Assam (due to the higher caffeine content) that had been a Christmas gift from his brother, Q nodded hello to the other workers gathered by the kettle. They were in the middle of a heated debate when he heard a familiar name.

"Holmes is not a fake!"

Minion #21 was outraged, and Q confused. He'd stopped using that name ages ago, but if they weren't talking about him than who? Was Mycroft in trouble? Minion #9 harshly responded.

"Keep telling yourself that, but all the evidence points to him being a fraud. You must have read the papers. Kitty Riley's article? Richard Brook?"

This was almost the worst argument Q had seen in the branch yet, second to only the "Algae: Plant or Protist?" fight that had ended with M's desk covered in a heap of _Ulva intestinalis_. The entire head office smelled like rotting seaweed for a week, and there were still suspicious green smears on old paperwork.

(Q still thought algae was a Protist.)

"The newspapers! So now they're the gospel truth?"

Minion #21 threw her hands up in the air in the universal "it's hopeless" sign, but then turned around again.

"How do you explain the cold cases solved, then? Did Holmes commit crimes before he was conceived just so he could solve them as an adult? Thousands of people have tried to solve those cases, and only he could. And then he didn't even take credit for it!"

She looked around and spotted Q.

"Q, back me up here!"

Minion #21 looked desperate, so he poured boiling water into his cup and leaned against the counter.

"Alright. What are you all so worked up about?"

She immediately started talking.

"Well, sir, there's this consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, and his nemesis, consulting criminal Moriarty. Now Moriarty broke into the Tower, Pentonville Prison, and the Bank of England, but when he was tried for his crimes he was acquitted. The press is saying that there never was any Moriarty, and that Holmes invented all the crimes so he could feel clever solving them, but that's just not true! And then he went and jumped off Saint Bart's, and everyone still thinks he's a fake!"

Minion #21 was spitting the words at the end of her rant, but Q only registered part of it.

"Wait." He said slowly, confused.

"You mean... he's dead?"

Minion #9 didn't notice Q's growing distress.

"Yeah, he offed himself a few days ago. I hear the service is today." Turning to #21, he continued.

"Now why would he do that if he wasn't guilty? Many criminals kill themselves once they're discovered, why is he any different? He was the object of a giant manhunt, after all."

Minion #21 had a solid counter argument.

"Yeah, but Moriarty destroyed his livelihood. He must have forced him to jump too. What do you think, Q?"

He almost couldn't breath.

 _Sherlock._

"I... I have to go. We'll talk later."

Q turned and fled the room, brain spinning in circles as he quickly walked to his office. R tried to intercept him with some forms.

"Not right now, R. Please."

As he closed the door and fogged the glass he could see R's concerned face, but he couldn't deal with anyone's questions right now.

 _Sherlock._

 _Sherl._

Rushing to his computer, Q typed in the query 'Sherlock Holmes,' only to find articles loudly proclaiming "Suicide of Fake Genius Detective," and "Richard Brook- 'Sherlock Holmes Invented Moriarty.'"

"He can't be dead."

Maybe if he said it enough times it would be true.

"He...He's... No. Mycroft would have told me, he wouldn't have done this, this... this can't be real, I... I can't let this be real."

Deep down, Q knew that not informing him of Sherlock's death was Mycroft's way of finally rejecting him from the family. A way of saying "Sherlock was your brother in spirit, but I have no connection to the product of Siger's affair. You never were, and never will be a true Holmes."

That statement hurt now as much as it had when he was young and adopted by Mummy Holmes.

Figures Mycroft would turn the suicide of his brother into a power play.

The last article Q read gave the date, time, and place of the funeral, which was that day, at 1100.

He owed it to Sherlock to be there.

 _Sherlock._

 _Sherl._

* * *

Sending an email to R and M, he claimed that he was feeling under the weather and wanted to take a sick day.

 **R, you can handle anything that comes up. I'm sure the interns would be delighted to have you as DM. Don't let the interns steal my tea.**  
 **M, please don't contact me unless there is a true world crisis. Bond blowing up a national monument does not qualify as such.**  
 **Sincerely,**  
 **Q**

Gathering up his things and tossing on a thick coat, he took one last swig of his tea, wiped his eyes and composed his features, then dived into the chaos that was a bored Q-Branch on a slow day.

No one bothered him as he walked toward the parking garage, unlocking his back-engineered Prius and stashing his stuff in the passenger seat. Sherlock had once made fun of him for owning such a hipster car, but Q liked it. (It was blue!)

 _Sherlock_.

London traffic was usually bad, but Q wasn't above hacking into the stop lights and giving him green lights most of the way. Pulling up at the cemetery's reception building, he saw strings of people headed inside. A family of four, an old bald man, and a group of soldiers in uniform, all drifting toward the main entrance.

Q straightened his hair and changed cardigans, hoping to look a little less like a mess, then slid out of his seat, slamming and locking the door. Swinging his messenger bag across his body, he strode toward the main hall, hoping that Mycroft wouldn't be there.

No such luck, but his brother did have the good grace to avoid acknowledging him, and he passed unmolested into the chapel area. Finding an empty seat on a pew in front of a support column, he leaned back and looked up at the stained glass ceiling. The rough plaster of the column scraped the back of his head, grounding him as the light lazily floated in through the windows.

He should have called more, checked in occasionally. Maybe he could have noticed something Mycroft couldn't, maybe stopped Sherlock from-

The illuminated specks of dust that floated past his gaze reminded him of an experiment Sherlock had run when he was younger- using dust disturbances to determine the height and shoe size of the person who walked through it. Sherlock had run that experiment during one of Mummy's dinner parties, and forced guests to walk, sprint, and stagger through a dusty room.

When Q had questioned the purpose of this experiment, Sherlock quieted him by saying "Don't you see? This could catch a _murderer_ someday."

Sherlock was always oddly interested in crime, and no one was surprised when he decided to become a detective.

That dinner party experiment was probably better than the one on the differences between charred and rotting flesh. The house stank for days afterwards, and some of Mummy's guests never returned.

The corner of Q's mouth minutely twitched. Out of all of them, he was probably the easiest child to raise.

Both of Q's parents by blood were dead, killed in a car crash when he was 5. Sherlock, 6 at the time, had deduced his father's affair during dinner, and that same night Violet Holmes threw Siger out of the house both parents died. Child Protective Services took him to Mummy Holmes, his next of kin, and she adopted him. Sherlock had always accepted Q as a brother. Mycroft never had.

Looking up at the multicolored portrayals of the Saints, Q recognized a few. The Holmes weren't religious, but he did recognize some of the saints from his college classes on religions of the world. His favorite saint had always been St. Mazenod, the patron of dysfunctional families. His own family certainly qualified as dysfunctional.

Caught up in his reverie, he didn't notice that someone was next to him until they sat down. Glancing over, he did a double take.

"Moneypenny? What are you doing here?"

Eve grinned.

"I was about to ask you the same question! M sent me to express the intelligence community's condolences to Director Holmes. You?"

Q paused and thought about what to tell her, eventually deciding on the truth.

"He..."

 _Deep breath. Don't cry._

"He was my brother. I didn't know about all this until this morning."

Eve's eyebrows contracted in concern, and she slowly grabbed one of his hands and squeezed it.

"God, Q. I don't know what to say. How are you?"

Q very determinedly looked over her shoulder, never meeting her eyes.

"I'm... holding in there. I still can't believe..."

He trailed off, but Moneypenny understood. They sat in silence until the service started. As they stood up to sing, Q gathered his composure and leaned over to whisper in her ear.

"Sherlock would have hated this unnecessary ceremonialism. Whenever we went to funerals, he'd always want study the corpse. After the time he took samples of the late Great-Uncle Sherringford's saliva, Mummy banned him from funerals."

Eve giggled and whispered back.

"Somehow that behavior makes your work binges seem a lot more sane. Were you always the normal one?"

"Mycroft was the one who did the typical teenager things. He was class president at our high school, and even had a boyfriend for a while. Sherlock and I always objected to the obvious way he'd modify himself to fit in. We both, Sherlock especially, never tried very hard."

Q sadly smiled at that thought, and then quieted down and watched the service.

(He hated it on Sherlock's behalf.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello! I know, I know, it's been a while. Sorry, I guess?**

 **Do I really have to try to convince you that I don't own Sherlock or James Bond?**

 **PS- Reviews would be nice… (hint, hint)**

* * *

The last (disgustingly sappy) song was played, final chord still ringing over the chapel's occupants. Moneypenny stood, and turned to Q.

"I have to offer my condolences to Director Holmes now- would you like to stay here or come with me?"

Q noted that her usually playful voice was softer, more somber, but barely processed the question.

"Hmm? Oh..."

He paused.

"I, uh, I think I'll stay. I'll come find you eventually."

Nodding and giving him one last squeeze, Moneypenny strode away, heels muffled on the worn carpet. She made a beeline for where Mycroft was standing surrounded by other mourners. Q could tell Eve didn't understand his lack of an emotional response, but that just wasn't how the Holmes family acted. People had called his brothers machines when they didn't shed a single tear between them at Siger's funeral. Q just didn't cry. His mind would whirl through an empty void of questions and nothingness, he would be shaken to the very core of his being, but he never cried.

Mycroft stood over by the closed casket, shaking hands with a group of men in uniform. Q didn't want to talk to Mycroft right now. He didn't want to talk to anyone right now.

Sherlock was dead.

Q had seen a fair amount of death, working in the position he did. A strangled yell from whatever soldier was at odds with 007. The strangled noises that 002 had made while bleeding out, which still kept him up at night. He had tried to protect the people under his command, but there was no way to save them all.

No way to save Sherlock.

Why had he jumped?

Q wondered if he had ever really known his brother. At least Mycroft, in his incredibly controlling way, had kept in touch. Q would occasionally text Sherlock to ask how he was and, on one memorable occasion, sneak him a case that had stumped MI6 for weeks. (Sherlock solved it in less than 10 minutes, so Q had fabricated some story about drawing connections using online sources, and thrown in some tech jargon and big words. M had listened to 30 seconds of his explanation before giving up on the possibility of understanding.) Other than that, he hadn't even tracked the news about Moriarty and the high profile cases. If he had paid attention, could he have stopped the systematic character assassination?

Q looked across the rows of pews to where Mycroft stood, and saw him shaking hands and giving people terse nods. At least Mycroft had been there for Sherlock.

 _No, stop that train of thought._

His mind kept swirling.

 _Stop._

He remembered nights spent wide awake, and the whispered conversations with a younger Sherlock. They shared a room after Siger's accident, because Mummy's house was too small and Mycroft was a less than ideal roommate. Despite the occasional dead animal dissections and the daily battles at bedtime, Sherlock made pretty good company. Sherlock was the first one to show him the world of hacking, by telling Q "I'll play with you if you hack the grade system and give Mycroft all terrible marks." They endured Mummy's punishment together, which only brought them closer together, veritable partners in crime. As Q grew more interested in hacking, he would show his brother some basic techniques. In return, Sherlock would cover the basics of deducing.

Q never voiced his deductions like his brothers, but he occasionally used the little bits of information he gathered to creep out his minions. (They called him overlord for a good reason, after all.)

He wished he had been a better brother. After all, good brothers don't leave and let their brother confront a smear campaign on their own.

A small group of children ran past his secluded spot, apparently playing tag in the pews. They skipped by with wide smiles.

 _Joy prevails, even among sorrow_ , thought Q. The contrast that the world provided was beautiful and terrible.

Suddenly, Q needed air. He slipped into a hallway that was lined with metal cubbies, decorated with names and displaying intricate urns. Walking among the indoor maloseum, he spotted a fire escape door that had been propped open with a trash can. Curious, he passed through the door, careful to make sure that the bin remained where it was.

The crisp air filled his lungs, and he caught a whiff of cigarette smoke. Turning, he caught sight of a man leaning against the short stone wall separating the walkway from long lines of gravestones. The man was wearing a worn black suit and had a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He was facing the graveyard, deep in thought. As Q looked at the man's face, he was struck by how weary he looked.

Q said the first thing that came to mind.

"Those things will kill you, you know."

The man glanced at him, did a double take, and then realized that he wasn't who he thought he was. With that realization came a small droop of his shoulders. He chuckled bitterly, wiping a weathered hand over his face.

"Sorry about that. I thought you were someone else for a second." The man had a rough voice, and his accent smeared the vowels. He collected himself quickly, stubbing out his cigarette and sticking one hand out.

"I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade. And you are?"

His hand was surprisingly warm in the chill air, and his grip was firm. Q mirrored his small smile.

"My name is Q. Were you a friend of Sherlock's?"

Q was being polite, but was surprised when the man bitterly chuckled.

"I'm not sure how many friends he actually had, but I'd like to think I'd be on the short list. It was hard to tell with him, though. Half the time he was an arse and the other half he was using you!"

Lestrade sighed.

"I'm sorry, I'm still really angry at the bastard. I don't mean to unload this all on you."

Q perched himself on the worn wall.

"I get it. I still think he's somehow going to jump around the corner and bemoan me for being an idiot, like usual." Q's voice was soft and quiet.

"When we were younger, he would always chase me around the garden clutching dissected animals and test the flammability of different fabrics using my wardrobe. I really shouldn't miss that, but I do somehow."

Lestrade chuckled, relating with Q's sentiment.

"Yeah. He would always break into my office and sit in the dark, just waiting to scare the bejesus out of me. When I first met him, he walked onto a crime scene while high, deduced the murderer, announced that two coppers were sleeping with each other, and ended up getting his sorry arse arrested!"

Q laughed, and Lestrade continued.

"We arrested him, of course, for possession or something of that sort, but then his filthy rich brother got him out."

"Yeah, Mycroft always did give Sherlock special treatment."

Lestrade tilted his head, curious.

"You sound like you know them both pretty well, though I've never heard either mention a 'Queue.' How do you know them?"

Q decided to lie, because it was easier than explaining the truth.

"I grew up near the Holmes household, and we were forced to play together as children. I was the only one in the area whose parents didn't object, so I spent a lot of time with him. A few years ago we reconnected and he helped me on a case, while being a total arse, of course."

"That's Sherlock for you," quipped Lestrade.

Lestrade stubbed out his cigarette and straightened out his clothing.

"It was nice talking with you, Queue, was it? I'm headed back in, Ms. Hudson will be wondering where I've gone to. Good day." With that he slipped back in the doors, leaving Q with only his thoughts and a bitterly cold wind.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello again!**

 **I was on a writing spree and managed to finish another chapter, so here we are! If you feel moved to leave a review, that would be much appreciated!**

 **I want to work in Q branch someday. Can I move to a fictional universe yet? No? Fine...**

 **Don't own it. I would think you'd know that already.**

* * *

The minions were concerned. Not only had Q left without so much as a word of goodbye, he also had left a cup of tea half made in the staff room. The overlord they knew would never leave tea, not even for an emergency involving the 00s. If 007 was dying, Q would calmly brew the cup, stroll to his desk, and then answer. R was especially concerned because she knew that Q wouldn't miss a D&D tournament if he could help it.

The office group chat was blowing up.

"Something terrible must have happened!" Minion #17 said.

"Is there a way to cheer him up, R?" #26 frantically asked.

R tried to imbibe calm into her words, but she was worried as well.

"The best thing we can do for Q is to complete our jobs, so he had less to work on when he gets back. When he does get back, we can act like everything is going normally, and he'll tell us if he wants to."

Late that afternoon, R got an email requesting a pair of weaponized stilettos in black suede. She was slightly confused, but manufactured them anyway, hoping that Q would return soon.

* * *

Bright and early the next morning, R walked in to see the boss working like nothing had happened. He was a little subdued, but nothing that a few explosive "experiments" couldn't fix. It was Festive Fashion Friday in Q-branch, with everyone showing off their best nerd fashions. The atmosphere was electric (#13 was playing with the Tessa coils again), and Q couldn't help but smile at the wonderful colleagues he had.

However, the cheerful atmosphere came to a halt when a few unannounced guests walked in the door. There was M, a slightly pudgy man behind him that a few recognized as Mycroft Holmes, and his assistant. Q glanced over and stiffened. There was a small pop as #13 sheepishly turned off the coil and the buzzing came to a stop.

"Quartermaster, you have a visitor. This is Mycroft Holmes and his assistant Anthea, from the Prime Minister's office." M made a brief introduction, knowing fully well that all of the minions in the room were researching that name as he spoke.

Q picked up the heels that R had left on his desk, and walked over to the group. He handed them to Anthea, and said politely "he deserves it this time." Q then pivoted and punched Mycroft in the face with all of his strength, eliciting a gasp from the crowd. Had their quartermaster been possessed or something? Why on earth was he acting like this?

Mycroft stumbled backwards, clutching his face, while Anthea admired her new heels. M spluttered in shock.

"For heaven's' sake, Q, what was that about? Mr. Holmes, I formally apologize for the actions of our Quartermaster, we will be having words later." M was unsure of what had brought that on- Q was so level-headed most of the time!

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at Q.

"I can make them fire you, you know. You know who I am, and what I can do."

Q laughed bitterly.

"I also know what you can't do. You traitor, giving him all the ammunition he needed. You couldn't even fix your mess, and now my brother is-" Q took a deep breath, and tried to collect himself.

"Goddamnit, you didn't even invite me to the funeral." His voice was small, before strengthening in resolve.

"Get out of my branch."

"Q, I-" Mycroft tried to respond.

"Get. Out. You have ten seconds before I activate the turrets in the walls."

Mycroft turned and walked out, M trailing twitchely behind. Q would have to apologize to him later. Anthea blew him a kiss as she walked out the door.

The entire room was silent, as Q quietly walked to his desk to get his mug, grabbed his laptop, and went into his office and closed the door. A few seconds later the transparent walls blurred, blocking their view inside.

The minions were still silent. Finally, #2 spoke.

"There," she said. "I just gave Mr. Holmes all red lights for the rest of the day."

Silence, and then Minion #12 spoke.

"I'm going to make his office lose power every time he tries to boil a kettle."

A little giggle from the corner.

"I'm going to make every copper that he sees pull him over. Can you imagine how pissed that prick will be?"

"Oh, but I can do better than that!"

It soon became a contest about who could inconvenience Mycroft Holmes the most. The winner was a minion sent their drone disguised as a pigeon to poop on his head.

* * *

Q was desperately trying to calm down inside his office, but the quiet was disturbed by a note sliding underneath the door. It was titled Things We (the Minions and R) Did to Annoy Mycroft Holmes. At the bottom of the page, was a sentence that was written in R's handwriting.

"Because no one messes with one of our own.

P.S- Star Trek marathon the bomb range in 20 minutes."

Q's heart was heavy, but Star Trek sure helped.


End file.
